


Shipkiller

by joban_disaster



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angry Sex, BAMF Queen Anne, Early Modern Era, F/M, Historical Accuracy, Historical References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 21:18:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16462505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joban_disaster/pseuds/joban_disaster
Summary: She's not a girl; she's a queen. And he'd do damn well to remember that.





	Shipkiller

They've been sitting around the nunnery's dining hall table for an hour now and D'Artagnan's just glad they've avoided homicide so far. Treville's been mediating the argument between an agitated Athos, a fidgety Porthos, and an increasingly irritated Queen Anne, with D'Artagnan chiming in from time to time to draw them back on topic and an ominously silent Aramis glowering at them from under the rim of his hat. His eyes haven't left the monarch's face

Athos gestures helplessly in the air in front of him with his cup. "Your Majesty, it's too dangerous for you to return with Rochefort in control!"

"I grew up in the courts of Spain and France," the queen shoots back. She's sitting with perfect posture at the head of the table, the very image of composed serenity, idyllic presentation only ruined by her gritted teeth and the tension in her throat when she swallows. "I know how to handle danger in a palace."

"Now that you mention it, you'd be a natural with a sword, Majesty," Porthos offers cheekily. Athos smacks him upside the head. "Christ, Athos—"

"Your Majesty must do what she thinks is right," Treville quickly cuts in, shooting a glare at his musketeers that promises a painful death if they don't stop bickering, "and we will, of course, follow as her loyal guards."

"Then it is decided." The queen smooths her skirts down her thighs. "I will return to Paris at once."

Aramis is glaring daggers at her again and D'Artagnan kicks him under the table. "What is your problem?" he hisses. "Treville's going to murder you if you insult the queen."

The dark-haired soldier just grimaces at him and turns his frown back on the stiff-backed woman sitting in front of them. D'Artagnan watches with growing horror as the queen narrows her eyes back. "Do you disagree with my duty, Aramis?"

The musketeers shrink away from the dangerous glint in their friend's eyes they've all seen before. "Aramis, don't do it—" Athos gets out before Aramis does, in fact, do it, and— even by normal Aramis standards— does it rather spectacularly.

He crosses his arms and scowls at his once-paramour. "Frankly, Majesty, your 'duty,' as you so put it, is madness."

All the color drains from Porthos' face. Treville freezes. Athos is still desperately trying to head Aramis off. "Majesty, if we were to return tomorrow, we would have to—"

" _Madness_ , Aramis?" The queen stands, blue gaze flaring. "You call protecting my country, _madness_?"

"I call it a death wish," he hisses at her. "I call it ridiculous and impulsive."

She goes stone still. Scarlet begins to creep over her cheeks. "I— _ri_ _diculous and impulsive_?"

("This is going to be bad," Athos whispers to Porthos.)

("It's already bad," Porthos huffs back. "How can it get worse?")

Eyes burning black, Aramis glowers up at the queen. "We need you alive, Majesty. Not executed after a fit of childish rage."

("That," Athos states flatly. "That was how.")

"How _dare_ you!" she seethes. "I am the _queen of France_ , and I cannot avoid my responsibilities to my people because I am at _risk_!"

("She's going to kill him," Porthos breathes, eyes huge. They've never seen the queen lose her composure like this. "And he's going to deserve it.")

(Athos swallows. "Maybe the Captain can just get him exiled.")

"Your being _alive_ is more important to your people than your responsibilities, Ana!" the musketeer explodes, slamming a hand down on the table.

" _You_ —!" Queen Anne launches herself at Aramis as the door to the dining hall creaks open and the nuns begin to file in. Dimly, D'Artagnan realizes they must have missed the dinner bell as Aramis stands to meet the fuming monarch nose to nose, catching her by the upper arms and growling in her face. The nuns are seating themselves, talking quietly among themselves, and no one seems to notice the musketeers' sheer horror at Aramis and the queen's actions or Treville's impending heart attack at their familiarity until the monarch shoves Aramis in the chest, knocking him back from the table. "I cannot flee from being queen!"

"And I would lay down my life for my queen!" Aramis bites back, "but since you're so excited to have it be for _nothing_ —"

Treville looks like he's going to throw up as the queen hisses in a sharp breath and, for a moment, all the air is sucked out of the room before everything explodes into sudden, churning movement.

" _Damn_ you, Aramis!" She wraps a hand in his coat collar and yanks him away from the table hard, slamming him through a door leading to one of the stockrooms and kicking it shut on the shocked faces behind them. With it closed, she pushes him up against the wooden wall, seething. "You don't know what it's like to have the weight of _all France_ on your shoulders!"

"I know what it's like to have _duties_ —" and he's fuming in her face, fisting his hands in her hair and yanking her eyes to his so she can see how _stupidly_ _stubborn_ she's being— "that require _strategy_ in order to goddamn _survive_ _them_!"

"My son— _our_ _son_ — is there, in that snake pit," she spits at him, "our _baby_ , and you want me to stay here and _hide_?"

His eyes narrow. "You think I don't want to ride in and take him away as much as you?" He bares his teeth at her, looking nearly feral in his rage. "No matter what, he's my son and I will protect him— and his mother— until my dying breath. And that means strategy."

"I won't hide behind abbey walls!" She's spitting mad, gaslight-blue irises nearly eclipsed by huge black pupils. "I am a _queen_ —"

"So why won't you _act like_ —"

She's yanking his mouth down to hers before he can finish his snarled sentence.

The first time they'd slept together he'd been so soft with her, teasing the sweetest orgasms from her body with his fingers and mouth until she finally pleaded with him to enter her. Now, as she pins him up against a wall with one fist scraping short, sharp nails down his shoulder blades and the other clenched in his hair, baring his throat so she can bite bruises over his collarbones, she can't even remember who the girl he made love to was.

(She's not any girl; she's _Habsburg_. And he'd do damn well to remember that.)

There's nothing gentle about this union now. She draws blood as she rakes her nails down his stomach; he grabs at his knife and slashes through the rich fabric of her gown, baring her breasts to his hands and hot, hungry mouth, and she's still so fucking _mad_.

"Don't presume you have any say over what I do," she gasps out as he flips them, shoving her against the wall, sliding his hands up the nape of her neck and holding her head in place so he can suck at her jawline. She's panting into his mouth and he slams her up harder against the surface as he wedges a leg between her thighs and rubs hard against her through her dress. He grits his teeth when she moans and pulls at his hair to kiss him deeper. "You're mine, not the other way around, musketeer."

He tastes copper as the queen nips at his lips and nearly chokes on how furious this woman makes him. He can't tell if he wants to strangle her or make love to her over and over again until neither of them can move. "You don't own me."

"I do," she taunts, slipping a hand into his trousers to grasp his painfully hard cock, and laughs when he digs into her hip with his nails and bites down on her shoulder hard enough to bruise. "You know I do."

(He does, and it infuriates him even more than before.)

He's helpless, shaking as she twists her fist around his cock over and over and wrenches an aching, filthy orgasm from him, and he hates her and loves her so much at the same time it hurts. "What do you want from me, Majesty?" he pleads. He pushes up her heavy skirts, presses his fingers between her thighs to play with her sex while the other fists in her hair. "To say I'll let you go to your death in that damned palace? To agree that your _duty_ is worth your life?"

He'll break for her in the end. "I'm your queen," she chokes out as he thrusts a finger inside her and she rolls her hips into his, craving his closeness, "and I want you to fuck me."

"Beg me, then," Aramis whispers, and he knows the queen's won, and he's so, so very angry about it. "Beg me to fuck you, and maybe I'll do it."

Her lips part in a silent keen when he adds another finger. His other hand is scraping over her nipples and down her ribs, embedding trails of fire under her skin while she does the same to him. "Aramis—"

"Do you still want me, Ana," he growls into her ear, "knowing I will fight you every step of the way tomorrow to keep you safe from yourself?"

"I always want you," she gasps, "and God knows I'm going to be so furious with you tomorrow, but please, please, Aramis—"

And the queen's won, but when he presses her hips to the stockroom table and shoves into her hard, he knows her scream comes from— just for a moment— not having to be the one making the decision of who's going to get screwed that day.

 

* * *

 

Treville, Athos, Porthos, D'Artagnan, and the nuns are still sitting, frozen in place, when the door bangs open and the queen stalks out, clad in her skirts and— oh, dear God, is that _Aramis' shirt_? — with her hair spilling loose and tangled over her shoulders and dark purple bruises under her jawline. There's what looks like a bite mark on her shoulder, exposed by the blouse's drooping neckline.

Treville goes white.

"We leave at sunrise." Queen Anne glares at the soldiers with slitted eyes that have the hairs raising on the backs of their necks. "Understood?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Athos chokes out. "We'll have the horses ready."

Her icy stare sweeps over the petrified room and he feels his heart stop when she looks at him. "Good."

Porthos knows he's going to die at the hands of a being infinitely more terrible than the Devil the moment he opens his mouth, but he can't seem to stop the words from tumbling out: "Is Aramis alive?"

She actually _snarls_ at him. " _He_ is none of your concern until sunrise, musketeer."

"Yes, Majesty," he squeaks as she strides back into the other room, rattling dishes on the long table when she slams the door shut behind her.

The room is silent except for Treville's muffled muttering, face long-since buried in his hands. The abbess calls attention to herself by quietly clearing her throat. "It is not smart," she announces sagely, "to challenge a queen's decisions to her face."

The nuns murmur in hushed agreement. By now, Treville's moved on to banging his forehead against the table and Athos doesn't seem to be breathing, while Porthos downs his wine at an alarming rate. D'Artagnan just squeezes his eyes shut and tries to forget he ever saw the queen of France looking like she'd just been fucked within an inch of her life.

(Sunrise can't come soon enough for anyone after that.)


End file.
